


fill my heart with song

by foreverautumn



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Feelings, M/M, Slow Burn, Touching, and Connor & Hank, between Connor & Hank's old guitar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:40:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverautumn/pseuds/foreverautumn
Summary: It is - nice, doing these sorts of things with Hank. Existing as more than a machine, as he'd once been. More than a partner on the force. To simply be Hank and Connor - not Lieutenant Anderson and RK800 - is something immeasurable.(Connor assists Hank in cleaning out his garage. With the task, understandably, comes a lot of emotions.)





	fill my heart with song

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a sequel to '[in other words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15633069)', though it is not necessary to have read the former.

"How is it possible to have accumulated so much?" Connor asks, surveying their surroundings. Hank harrumphs beside him. Connor would spare him a glance, but he is preoccupied with analyzing the myriad of data before him. The dimensions of the garage from the outside had given no indication of just how - _full_ it would be.

"Can't believe you're sitting there, analyzing my garbage," Hank grumbles.

"Actually, I am standing," Connor corrects. It is surprisingly satisfying to hear the weary sigh in response. "Also, if this can all be categorized as garbage, I fail to see how my assistance is required."

Hank stops grumbling, finally. Stops shifting. Even stops breathing, for a few seconds. Connor does not comment, but is more aware of the body language of the man beside him than the pile of boxes his eyes are trained to in the back corner.

"It's not all garbage," Hank mumbles. Connor knows this, though it would be easy to press the issue. The tension seems to radiate before Hank finally blurts, "Maybe I just didn't feel like sorting through all this junk alone. Who knows what kinda shit I might come across? Hell, maybe I should just toss it all without looking, I've gone this long--"

Connor turns, interrupting Hank's diatribe. "That is unnecessary. I assure you I am content to aid in this endeavor."

Hank stares, eyebrows scrunched together. "Smarmy bastard. So what the hell you giving me shit for, then?"

Connor smiles. "I apologize. I seem to be unable to stop myself, sometimes." He turns to face forward again. "Besides, I suppose..." Connor pauses. There is more to this whole thing, and he is fully aware. It is not a topic they are broaching, yet. "I am looking forward to seeing pieces of your history, Hank."

He does not wait for a reply. He instead moves toward the item that has most captured his attention during his initial scan. "Aw, hell no," Hank groans, "two minutes in and he's already trying to kill me." Connor ignores him, using both hands to ease the item from where it's crammed. He would almost accuse Hank of hiding it there specifically so he would not notice, but this level of dust would be impossible to fabricate.

"Before you ask, no, I don't play," Hank says loudly. He crosses his arms defensively as Connor makes his way back over. "And before you ask, no, I'm not about to start."

Connor carefully rests the bottom of the guitar on the floor. He cannot help his curiosity, fingers running over the knobs on the side, the metal cool beneath his touch. Hank's gaze zones in as Connor runs a single finger along one taut string. "But Hank, why would you own a guitar and never attempt to play it? That makes no sense."

"Does _any_ of this shit make sense?" He waves an arm around. "Humans are hoarders, Connor." It is a poor attempt at deflection, on Hank's part. Connor raises an eyebrow. With just a slight amount of force, he plucks at the string beneath his finger. A discordant whine echoes quietly through the garage.

Hank's lips twitch. "Connor," he warns.

"You've never played," Connor repeats. He runs his finger horizontally across the strings, a sadder sound resonating around them. "You just purchased a guitar, randomly. On a whim." He runs a nail along one string. "You promptly returned home, and maneuvered it into a tight corner of your garage, where it never again saw the light of day."

"Connor, I swear to--"

Hank cuts off mid-sentence when Connor begins to pluck two strings one after another, repeating the motion over and over. Hank stares at his fingers, nostrils flaring.

"Whatever the _fuck_ kind of peer pressure this shit is," he mutters, gesturing wildly. Connor merely tilts his head and waits for him to continue. "Fine, so I played a little! But I sucked, I didn't keep up with it, and I just never got around to tossing the damned thing." He steps closer, holding out a hand. "Time to rectify that mistake."

Connor does not release the guitar. "There is no need for such harsh measures, surely."

A pause. Hank reaches out, grasping the neck of the guitar. "You do realize the whole idea here is to throw most of this stuff away, right?"

There is something decidedly - unpleasant, when faced with the idea of the guitar being disposed of. Sentimentality is not something he can claim in this situation, as he had only laid eyes on the guitar just minutes ago. Had only learned that Hank had once felt - a connection to it, had attempted to master it. Even if it hadn't ended well. Hank had held a passion for it.

"I know," Connor says finally. He still has not relinquished his hold. 

"Do you..." Hank eyes him strangely. "Do _you_ want to keep it?"

Connor's grip tightens. No - that's not it. Rather, he wants--

Hank chuckles a little. "You're not even holding it right."

Connor glances down, sees both his and Hank's hands, and, with a decision made, shifts the guitar toward Hank. "How does one hold it, then?"

"Like you don't know," Hank chuckles again. Still, he raises the guitar in his arms, rests it against his body, and fixes Connor with a hint of a smile. "Already told you, I ain't playing it." His fingers tap against the wood, some soft, unknown pattern.

Connor considers his options. He knows the exact outcome he desires in this situation, but is unable to determine the best approach. It is an occurrence that, while frustrating, appears indicative of his growing reliance on emotion rather than programming. What he needs in this circumstance, however, is that intricate programming, not the gentle hum in his fingertips and his chest as he watches Hank's fingers tap away.

Hank raises an eyebrow in what Connor can only interpret as a challenge. It is quiet, dust motes visible all in the air around them, sinking, swirling. Connor's fingers twitch. "Why did you decide to play to begin with?" he asks.

Hank shrugs a little too quickly. Connor raises his own eyebrow, and Hank sighs. "You can't blame a guy for being sweet on somebody and trynna woo them like they do in the movies, can you?"

Connor envisions it instantly - a younger Hank, frustrated but full of emotions as he'd struggled to learn to play properly. How far along had he gotten? With the person, and the guitar? Connor wants to know, to learn more about Hank - more than most anything. It is not the sort of thing to voice.

"So you won't play, now that you do not have anyone to woo?"

Hank's cheeks instantly flood with color. Connor has quite clearly misstepped, but there is not much time to dwell on it. "Well, this conversation's over," Hank says, abruptly turning and walking away. Connor watches him step outside briefly, returning moments later without the guitar.

He raises a finger, a stern look on his face when Connor's mouth opens. "Don't."

A silent battle of wills ensues. Connor could press Hank further, but with the current body language he is displaying, a positive outcome appears unlikely.

Connor glances away, rubs his hands together as he surveys the garage again. "Shall we get started, then?"

\--

Without either of them planning for it, it turns into a weekend project for them. Connor shows up at Hank's doorstep sometime in the afternoon, and they head to the garage together. Sometimes Hank invites him in first, while he has a cup of coffee to _'mentally prepare himself'_. Connor does not see how it is necessary, when evidence from the coffee pot reveals that Hank has already had a few cups, but he does not argue. Connor does not know what it is like to have years of belongings to go through, and whatever emotions that might entail. Sumo sits beside the kitchen table, snuffling at their ankles as Hank sips his drink. Connor checks on the flowers by the window while Hank rinses his mug, and then they go outside.

There is a part of Connor's programming that consistently maps out the best approach to tackle the different areas of the garage, the most efficient ways for them to clear the space. Connor ignores all of the suggested options, and allows Hank to choose which section they will be working on each day.

Hank has stories, sometimes. Other times, he shuffles through a box for only a few seconds before determining the entire thing can be tossed. It is difficult to keep his curiosity at bay and not catalogue the box's belongings without Hank's consent. The only explanation he would be able to offer is that of his curiosity, in all things related to Hank, and he is certain that nothing would anger Hank more than that very explanation.

Despite a part of him urging him to complete this task with the utmost efficiency, Connor much prefers it when Hank takes his time, laughing as he recalls a fond memory, or drawing his brows together as he considers whether something is worth keeping. It is almost like - despite the fact that Connor had not been there, had not been able to experience anything with Hank for most of his life, being here with him now, almost makes it seem like he had been. He too can look at Hank's old black metal CDs and know how much like a rebel he'd felt buying them; they had been kept, of course. He knows the exact suit Hank had worn on his wedding day, the cut of it, the color and the fabric, had run his own fingers over it before Hank removed it from his grasp with a grimace. "I ain't gonna fit in this thing ever again," he'd said, and that had been that. Connor can still envision what Hank would look like in it, and to him it is a precious image.

It is on the third Saturday - they could have been done with the entire garage on the first weekend, with sufficient time coordination and a solid plan - that something changes. Connor is surprised at himself for not being prepared for it. The way Hank's entire demeanor changes, the line of his shoulders freezing up and his face pale - how could Connor expect to prepare for it? What kind of plan could he enact to stop it from happening?

Hank stands dumbly, still grasping the old vacuum cleaner that, had it been at the end of its life cycle when brought out here, is most certainly no longer in working order. His fingers tighten, knuckles white, and Connor hesitates. Does not move to touch Hank, despite longing to. He reaches to remove the vacuum from Hank, instead, keeps his eyes trained away from the small red tricycle Hank is staring at. It does not feel - right, for Connor to look at it. It does not feel right to be part of this type of memory.

"Damn." Hank's hand has covered his face when Connor turns to him. _Comfort Hank_ \- but how? Endless data gathered, stored, and cared for, regarding Hank; all of it at his disposal, and Connor does not know what to do.

"Hank," he says. Reaches a hand out, finally, to gently touch Hank's shoulder. He flinches, and Connor pulls away. _Comfort Hank, but how?_

"Connor." It comes out gruff, forced through a grimace Connor cannot see. Hank keeps his face covered. Does not look at him. "I can't right now."

Closed off. Closed off from Connor, and - _shame_ , for feeling hurt by it. What right does Connor have to demand anything of Hank? Not just that - what reason should he have to assume that he could comfort Hank at all?

Still, he hesitates. "It's alright, Hank," he says. Hesitates again, unsure, unsure. Waits for Hank to say something, look at him, but he does not. Cannot stop himself from raising a hand to Hank's shoulder again - selfish - and asks, "Would you prefer to be alone?"

It is an easy out for Hank. For Connor, the words, the very idea of leaving, near unbearable. But if this is all he can do for Hank, right now, he will.

"I - okay," Hank answers. "Yeah, that's. Yeah."

And Connor leaves, because it is what Hank wants.

\--

It is somehow worse than what Connor had anticipated, and he had already projected this outcome leaving him - unsatisfied, on edge. Frustrated. Worried. Worried worried worried.

He is not certain he had behaved appropriately, given the situation. Should he have forced his presence on Hank, despite the man wishing to be alone? Alone, to face a sudden wave of grief. Is Connor a failure as a friend? Hank is the person closest, most important to him. What should he have done?

Despite assessing various actions and potential outcomes, Connor still does not know. What he does know is the thought of Hank alone is - distressing. Connor does not pace, but he would like to. Would like to sleep, that blissful state of not thinking that humans can escape to. Instead he analyzes. Over and over, fruitless simulations.

He has always waited until the afternoon to head over to Hank's, since they have begun work on the garage. Today, however, he cannot wait. Sets out the moment sunlight begins to filter in his lone window, through the post-it note Hank had stuck to it - _Open me, I'm suffocating_. Connor has not heeded the advice of the note, finding the prospect of it falling off with repeated jostling to be displeasing.

The walk to Hank's does not do much to ease his - anything. He should not have left. Would it have been better to drive Hank to yell at him? Shove at him, force him to leave? More analyzing; Connor attempts to stop. To not focus on it to such an extent, at least.

Cole will always be - no, he should not allow himself to think that. To attempt to categorize Hank's feelings. The memory of Cole brings Hank pain, but only because of the other memories, the beautiful ones. Those are the ones to cherish. And Hank does, Hank does, he knows. Everything about his son, he cherishes. Connor rounds the corner, eyes instantly drawn toward Hank's house. And knows, he should not have left, because - 

Connor stops.

He had been fully prepared to unleash a series of actions upon his arrival: a knock to the front door, followed by repeated ringing of the bell, and dialing Hank's phone until the man had allowed him in. Perhaps breaking in through the window would be a bit extreme in this case, but Connor had briefly considered it. These preparations are, in fact, unnecessary.

The simple fact is, he had not calculated for what he finds before him. Had not expected to see Hank on his haunches, careful hands at work on the tricycle. Sunlight beats down, glinting off the red of the bike. Reddening the back of Hank's neck, just slightly, the skin uncovered with Hank's hair pulled back. One hand reaches for a rag, Hank's gaze hyper-focused as he shines away a spot of dirt. 

Something stirs in Connor. He pauses, unsure of his place in the scene before him. _You do not belong here_ , the prompt appears. Clouds his vision, with each careful motion of Hank's hand.

Then there are other words, Hank's own - _maybe I just didn't feel like sorting through all this junk alone_. Not alone. He'd wanted Connor there. Had made a point of it. Has sought to include him, despite no pressing necessity. It does not take long before he is walking up the driveway.

Hank notices his shoes first. He cranes his neck up slowly, squinting. "Hey," he greets. "What're you doing here so early?"

Connor thinks it unwise to state it plainly - _I was worried about you_.

Somehow, the easy tone of Hank's voice, the look on his face - perhaps it had been right, after all. Hank had needed time alone.

"I assumed you still required my assistance," he says. It comes out stilted.

Hanks huffs a laugh, gaze shifting back down to his work. "You're a real go-getter no matter what, huh?"

Connor watches him continue to run the rag along the surface before him. The spot of dirt is long since gone. Connor's fingers itch to do something. He does not know what to say.

"I was thinking, Chris might be able to use this old thing," Hank drawls eventually, breaking the silence. He does not look back to Connor as he speaks. "Kid's still too young to ride it just yet, but they sprout up on you before y'know it."

Hank's big hands move to the seat, one cupping the side while the other runs the rag along more nonexistent dirt. Connor stares. If Hank were to place his palm flat, he could cover the seat. The entire seat, with just one hand. The earlier feeling stirs stronger, an itch that spreads into an urge in his chest.

"Hank," he says, stretching out a hand. Hank looks at it, blinking. Squints back up at Connor, before releasing the rag wordlessly. Reaches out and takes Connor's hand.

He wastes no time in hauling Hank upward. Ignores the grunt of surprise as the man regains his balance, choosing instead to wrap his arms around Hank.

"Hey now, what's all this?" Hank mumbles. His arms rise slightly, hanging awkwardly at his sides.

"My apologies, Hank. I appear to be malfunctioning."

Hank laughs, a short, brittle sound. His hands shift to Connor's back. "Really now? What do we do 'bout that?" he asks, voice low. Thick. Connor does not analyze it. It fits into the category of Connor's least favorite tones of voice, when it comes to Hank.

Connor closes his eyes. Hank had wanted to share this with him. As painful and ugly as it is. In spite of it, he'd crouched here in the morning sun, working to turn it into something else.

"It should resolve itself shortly," Connor says quietly.

Hank hums. Does not question him further.

When Connor reaches out to run his fingers along the tricycle's handlebar, Hank pauses to watch him, something unreadable passing over his face. He jerks his head toward the front door. "C'mon," he says.

Connor nods. Lets his fingers slip away, and follows Hank inside. 

\--

There are more moments when they come across something that stirs up a memory of Cole. Connor feels better prepared; perhaps Hank does, too. Stands there with a thoughtful look in his eye, and Connor waits. Sometimes he will recount a story, about how Cole had loved playing catch even though he'd nearly always miss, how Sumo would always be lying in wait to steal the ball and the two of them would chase him around the yard. Other times, he stays silent, and Connor - gives him time. Does not pressure Hank, but he is there. There, for the next story, for the next smile, and Connor thinks there is not possibly more that he could learn to hold dear, but Hank continues to prove him wrong.

A handful of weekends, and they have sorted through the entire garage. Connor is both pleased and a bit - disappointed, that it has come to an end.

Hank stands with his hands on his hips, grinning. "Damn, I don't think I've ever seen it this empty."

"It is empty," Connor agrees. "Unfortunately, it is extremely dirty, as well."

Hank shoots him a side-eyed glare. "Don't ruin the moment."

Connor raises his hands. "I would not dream of it. Please, Hank. Continue to admire the dust, dirt, and--"

"Rude," Hank interrupts. "Besides, you can clean this shit up, right? Don't need me for this part." He claps Connor on the shoulder and walks off.

Connor turns to watch him disappear. The likelihood of Hank coming back is quite high. The likelihood of Hank reacting with alarm to find Connor actually fulfilling that request is also quite high. And so, Connor moves quickly.

As expected, Hank blusters and yells upon returning; when Connor does not cease, he eventually joins in cleaning as well. Connor finds it all very pleasant, despite the occasional grumble.

It is - nice, doing these sorts of things with Hank. Existing as more than a machine, as he'd once been. More than a partner on the force. To simply be Hank and Connor - not Lieutenant Anderson and RK800 - is something immeasurable.

When Hanks smiles at him, that soft sort of smile that reaches his eyes, he thinks Hank might appreciate it, too.

\--

Hank invites him over on Wednesday evening. As always, Connor accepts. He intends to refute Hank, at some point; taking advantage of his hospitality to such a degree must be considered uncouth. Still, he has not done so just yet. Hank is in a good mood, fingers tapping at the steering wheel.

Connor closes his eyes and focuses on the music. Hank will occasionally ask Connor to choose a song, but this is still something Connor hasn't quite grasped. He would like to develop musical preferences, but it is more difficult than he had anticipated. It requires more - feeling. This is an unsatisfactory answer, but perhaps it is not something he should attempt to put explanation to. He will figure it out eventually, he thinks.

"You're thinking too hard," Hank says. Connor opens his eyes to find Hank wagging a finger at him. "One day, you're just gonna _feel_ it, Connor. You're gonna know."

"Know what?"

Hank grins. "That it's your jam. You'll get that 'hey, this is the shit for me' notification."

Connor raises an eyebrow. Hank is still grinning as he turns his full attention back to the road. Connor watches him for a moment. "I believe I may have a preference, but I cannot confirm it just yet."

"Oh? And why's that?" Hank asks, curious.

"Because I have not listened to it."

Hank shoots him a quick glance. "So why the hell wouldn't you, if you think you'd like it?" 

"I have not had the opportunity," Connor replies. He is working up to his intended request, as it is one he believes Hank may not be initially interested in fulfilling.

"Haven't had the--" Hank shakes his head. "You can probably pull up any song at any time you please, so what's stopping you?"

He pauses, before settling on, "It is a live performance that interests me." Connor watches Hank's fingers cease their motions.

"So, what? You wanna go to a concert?" Hank's expression is puzzled as he pulls into his driveway.

"Something like that," Connor agrees as they make their way to the door. Hank chuckles, shaking his head again.

"Always the complicated one," he says, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. "Don't like music, so you decide you wanna hit a concert sometime."

Connor's eyes are drawn to the guitar propped up next to the couch. He has noticed its appearance three separate times while inside Hank's house, but has not mentioned it. Mostly due to the fact that the first time he had seen it, Hank had almost broken his neck flying across the room to shove the guitar in a closet. He could only assume the drastic measures had been an attempt to keep him from commenting.

Now, however, Connor cannot help himself. The guitar sits there, continuing to taunt him with its presence. After the near death experience that Connor wisely did not comment on, Hank has not made any overt gestures to hide the guitar from him. Connor could continue on like this, pretending he holds no interest in it.

Instead he states, "Not a concert, Hank. I believe I would enjoy listening to you play guitar."

The way Hank freezes up entirely is not unexpected, but still seems unwarranted. Connor has not stepped up and pressed a loaded gun to the man's head. Still, Hank gulps, collapses on the couch like a dead weight. And stares.

"You wanna...?" Hank's eyebrows furrow. Connor is not sure what is so difficult to understand. It had been a simple statement.

"I have wanted to since first coming across it," Connor says, attempting to clear things up.

Hank only appears more confused. "But-- why?" Wide eyes. Dumbfounded. "I mean, you were just giving me a hard time that day, right?"

Connor tilts his head. "Partly. But why wouldn't I want to hear you play?"

"Well, I--" Hank's jaw works uselessly before he raises his hands in a strange swirling gesture. "I don't know! I told you I wasn't any good."

"That does not matter to me, Hank." Connor takes a few steps closer to the couch. "Besides, you have been practicing."

Hank's nostrils flare. "And how do you know that?" Connor waits, then opens his mouth when it appears Hank does actually want to know. Hank immediately cuts him off. "Never mind! Okay, I've been playing, and I ain't so bad. At simple shit, anyway." He appears thoroughly disgruntled for reasons Connor cannot determine.

_Ah._ "If you would rather not, please know I would not force you to do so," Connor says. It would appear that this is something - private. He's been attempting to become better at navigating these situations. Working with Hank to clear out the garage has given him more opportunities, but he had not realized the full sensitivity of this topic.

Hank groans loudly and slumps further into the couch. "It's not any repressed trauma shit, Connor. I just - wasn't expecting this. I dunno."

"I apologize." A miscalculation. Hank sits up properly to glare at him.

"Eh, stuff it, asshole. I'll play something, so sit down and shut up."

Connor does. Hank rises, stretches out his arms, and heaves a sigh. Settles back down after picking up the guitar, cradling it against his chest. "You don't even like music," he accuses.

"I believe I will like this," Connor replies pleasantly.

Hank's cheeks color slightly. "Didn't I tell you to shut up?"

"You did."

Hank grumbles and proceeds to ignore him, turning his focus to the instrument in his arms. Connor watches in fascination the way his hands shift, the flex of his muscles. Whatever Hank will play, Connor is certain he will like it. That is not what Hank wants to hear, however.

Hank closes his eyes and exhales. "Well. Keep quiet 'til I'm done, alright?"

"Of course, Hank." He had not considered interrupting.

Hank looks to him, then. Nods once, his gaze shifting downwards. It takes another few moments before anything happens.

And suddenly - Hank's hands are moving, fingers drifting across each string in a momentary caress as music fills the room. It is instantly beyond anything that Connor had been prepared for; the sound of music like this is different, of course, but it is more than that. Connor could not interrupt if he had wanted to.

Hank does not look at him while he plays; he'd started out watching his own hands, but eventually closes his eyes. Tilts his head to the side every so often, a soft hum leaving him at indeterminate points. Connor does not know whether this is a favorite song of Hank's or something he has come up with on the spot. But to Connor, it feels like - something.

Something all too heady when Hank tilts his head again, hair drifting into his eyes, and - his lips, forming words, silent but the movements easy for Connor to analyze. The shape of those words on Hank's lips cause Connor's fingers to dig into the fabric of the couch, an involuntary response.

Is this the song Hank had attempted to learn to woo the person from his youth? Or is it another, unrelated? What had driven Hank to choose this one? Questions arise one after another, but all he can bring himself to focus on is the gentle way Hank strums his fingers, the soft music echoing through the living room.

Connor - wants. Wants to understand. To be - _close_. Closer, to Hank. To listen to him, like this, wonderfully expressive without uttering a single word. Connor wants to crawl into every corner of Hank, know everything, not simply that but to _share_ , share everything of himself. Something stutters, thrumming, and Connor could - reach out, could press closer, could place his hand over Hank's to feel the vibrations. Could feel the beat of his pulse, if he were to press against Hank's neck.

It is over before Connor can act on any of the urges. He sits silently, unsettled, somehow. It is not an entirely bad feeling. There is so much he cannot name, when it comes to Hank. The music has ended, but everything else has not, stirring restlessly inside Connor.

"Not the best first concert," Hank says with a laugh. He pats the side of the guitar thoughtfully before shifting, turning and standing it beside the couch. Connor watches wordlessly. He has missed the opportunity to ask Hank to continue playing. If he had wanted him to. Had he?

"I enjoyed that very much, Hank," he says. It is true, after all. Despite the complicated feelings, the odd sense of confusion in light of them, Connor is certain this is an experience he will cherish.

Hank chuckles softly, running a hand over the back of his neck. "It's not like you have much to compare it to." He gazes at Connor, considering, and then smiles. "Thanks anyway, I guess."

"Of course. I would not extend a compliment if I did not mean it."

"Nah, you sure wouldn't." Hank's arms shift to stretch along the back of the couch. "So was it worth the wait?" he teases.

"Yes," he replies easily. The answer seems obvious now. He would like for Hank to play another song. He still does not consider himself fully accustomed to music, yet there is no room for doubt. He leans forward, tilts his head, just a fraction. Winks as he asks, "Would you play for me again, Hank?"

Hank's eyes widen, a flush rising in his neck. "Uh," he says, and continues to stare.

After a few more moments, Connor shifts, gaze drawn to his own hands. Still unsettled, somewhat. Something is still trickling along beneath his skin. He feels - uncertain. Wishes to reach out to Hank, but there is no immediate reason to. It is unclear whether Hank would chastise him for it.

He knows, already; he is always asking too much of Hank.

"Only if you wanted to," Connor continues. "I do not desire to cause you any discomfort. You had mentioned using music to entice a romantic partner, and if my asking you to play for me has gone against the associations you hold with playing the guitar, I would not seek to make you uncomfortable."

Hank does not reply. Connor brings his hands together, tries to ease the itch in his fingertips. "It appears that I already have, however. So please feel free to disregard the request. I do appreciate you humoring me to begin with."

"Oh my god," Hank mutters finally, the words muffled behind his hands. Connor watches him exhale a long breath before continuing, "You need to stop. Just."

Connor opens his mouth, then pauses. He is not sure what, exactly, Hank would like him to stop doing. He waits for an explanation before answering. 

Those hands lower, and Hank fixes him with a glare. The red is still in his neck, has spread into his cheeks. "I don't mind, alright? So cut it out with the self-sacrificing bullshit. You sure jump to conclusions for someone who's supposed to analyze every possibility." He runs a hand over his face and sighs. He's not quite looking at Connor when he says, "Besides, it's nice to... have someone to play for."

_You sure jump to conclusions._ Connor does not believe this to be true; he does analyze situations, words, body language, and then proceeds to react appropriately. Unfortunately, at this juncture, he has no idea how to respond.

"You alive in there?" Hank raps his fist lightly against Connor's forehead. He glances up to meet Hank's gaze, finally, and - Hank's hand lingers. Rests on his shoulder after a moment of awkward dangling. "Connor."

"I'm sorry, Hank." Connor thinks of the phantom words on Hank's lips, the weight of the hand on his shoulder seeming to increase. Connor looks away.

"I told you before, it's fine to say what you're thinking. Even if it's a little unexpected or - or not so easy to talk about." The hand squeezes. "I probably would have just tossed the guitar if you weren't there. So, sure." Connor looks back up, watches blue eyes crinkle at the corners. "Only makes sense I'd play for you."

"You do not have to." Exceptions. Concessions. Hank constantly treats Connor as though he were - special.

A raised eyebrow. "Are you gonna make me beg to serenade you?"

Connor's lips twitch. "Typically, a serenade involves singing of some kind. Is that what you're proposing?"

Hank purses his lips, suddenly sour. "You always gotta make things difficult, don't you." His hand slips away, and Connor reaches out. Catches it, the sensors in his fingers finally at ease once their hands are pressed together on the cushion between them. Hank makes a small sound of surprise, but holds him back. Hank always -

"This is-- I am happy, Hank." Far too simplistic, but - at its core, it _is_ simple. For all of the complicated moments, there is unquestionable happiness, with Hank. "I do not want to overstep any boundaries, but you consistently encourage me to do so. To understand myself, and allow me to understand you in turn."

Color rises to Hank's face once more, but he does not release Connor's hand. "And I appreciate that about you, Hank. You give so much of yourself, even if you do not realize it. I would like to continue to experience new things with you, if you will allow me. Whatever they may be."

Hank's expression turns pained, briefly, before he slaps the hand not joined with Connor's over his face. "Christ." The single word comes out strained as he squeezes at Connor's fingers, hard. It does not bother him, but would border on painful for a human. "It's like you exist solely to give me one unending heart attack."

"That is untrue," Connor replies. His hand finds its way to Hank's chest, resting above his racing heart. "My existence served a very specific purpose. Now that I myself am deviant, however, I exist to..." He pauses, drawn to the _thump thump_ in Hank's chest. He exists now to - what? It has been difficult to come to terms with, an undefined purpose. Finding his own purpose is something that comes along with living, according to Hank.

"Don't get existential right now," Hank mumbles, hand still covering his face. "Only one of us at a time, okay?"

"You have many reasons to exist, Hank." He smiles when Hank peeks through his fingers at him. "Of that, I am certain."

"Oh, are you now," Hank grumbles. In the next moment, Hank is yanking him forward, into an awkward embrace. "God, do you ever stop talking? Is holding you the only way to make you shut up?"

Connor's eyes drift closed as he resituates himself. "I admit that I do find myself at ease in your arms."

Hank emits a strange wheeze. "You don't have to say _everything_ that's on your mind, you know."

"My apologies, Hank." Hank only snorts into his shoulder. It is not difficult to focus solely on the feel of Hank's arms around him, the warmth of his body. It is one of Connor's favorite things, he thinks. But as Hank has said, he does not have to voice every thought he has.

"So, I have a question for you," Hank says gruffly.

"Are we allowed to talk now?" Connor asks. Hank stiffens against him, but does not push away.

"Insufferable smartass. One minute sitting there apologizing for everything under the sun, next minute busting my balls."

"I suppose my personality is too complex for most to grasp." Connor smiles, even as Hank pulls away from him, scowl painted on his face. It holds no heat in it. They both know it.

"Complex, my ass." Hank rolls his eyes, then adds quickly, "Don't add anything onto that, genius." Hank takes a moment to compose himself. Connor does not know what is coming until the first words leave Hank's mouth.

"The garage is all cleaned out, now," he begins awkwardly, and Connor wants - wants to reach out and cease Hank's words. Wants to tell him, _yes, of course_ , before he has to ask. But Hank has been so careful, and even now, Connor cannot bring himself to presume. "I didn't have any plans for what to do with it." He pauses. "I don't really need the space for anything."

There's a frantic look in his eyes, as though he has realized halfway through that he has no idea how to phrase the question. Connor takes Hank's hand again, because he can. Knows Hank would not allow anyone to do so, but Connor is not anyone, to him.

Hank looks down, watches Connor's fingers slide neatly against his palm. Lets out a heavy sigh, one that shifts his shoulders with the force of it.

"You already know, don't you?"

There is no point in lying. "Yes," he admits. "But what I believe it to be may not necessarily be the case."

Hank looks back up, eyes sharp. "If you want it, it's yours."

Another stutter, a thrum against the back of his throat. It travels downward, spreading, an intoxicating prickle that lights up every part of him. Hank does not know, cannot see a flush to his skin or an increase in his heart rate. He holds Connor's hand a little firmer, all the same.

"It would be just for you, so you can have your own space. I've got no reason to be going out there anymore anyway. I know you don't need it, you have a place already. But like I said, if you want it, it's yours." A pause, his other hand gesturing around the room. "And you're welcome here any time you want, of course." _Of course._ Like it is a simple conclusion. Natural. Logical.

Like this is something Connor should - _expect_. Should believe himself to deserve.

"So you know, just think about it," Hank says with a nod. "There's no rush. I just wanted to put it out there."

Connor should be saying something. Hank had joked that he finds it difficult to keep Connor quiet, but apparently all he'd needed to do is - this. _This._ Look at Connor with such kindness in his eyes, say words that veer so very close to _I want you here with me_. And Connor, still with those words from earlier on his lips - _yes, of course; I want to be here._

Hank squeezes his hand, moves to pull away as he repeats, "Just think about it." Connor does not need to think about it.

"Additional time to consider your proposal is not necessary." A smile, and the words are finally there. "Of course, Hank."

Hank's eyes widen, lips parting comically, and Connor smiles wider. Perhaps Hank had not expected such a simple conclusion, either.

"Oh," he says, "I - yeah, okay." He nods once, gaze directed somewhere past Connor's shoulder. "I guess - that's it then, huh?" It takes some time for Hank to meet his eyes.

"I suppose I am quite receptive to your attempts at a serenade." Connor delights in the pained groan he gets in response. Hank drops his head against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. Connor considers him for a moment before shifting, leaning closer to allow their shoulders to touch. A slight pressure that Connor finds immensely pleasing. Hank freezes.

But then Hank's arm is around his shoulders, even as he huffs, "I don't know why you insist on trying to kill me."

"That would be highly counterproductive of me," Connor says. "I enjoy your company quite a lot."

"God knows why," Hank mutters. Connor can hear the smile in his voice. He considers offering to list off some of the qualities he most appreciates about Hank, but it might cause a negative reaction at this juncture. Connor decides to close his eyes, instead.

Hank's hand shifts, fingers lightly running along Connor's shoulder. "Fucking serenade," he says, "like I got that shit in me." The trail continues, until eventually he brushes the curve of Connor's neck. Pinpricks of sensation burst beneath his skin, behind his eyelids.

The lightest of touches, nearly absentminded, and he finds himself overwhelmed. Always, always overwhelmed, in new and different ways, when it comes to Hank. He continues stroking Connor's shoulder, occasionally brushing against his neck, and Connor continues to react internally. "I'm not so good at this kind of shit, I don't know if you've noticed."

Connor feels as though he's lighting up, glowing; the spark inside surely must be fighting its way outward. It is impossible to express it in mere words, nor can he in the simple press of their hands.

"I think you're quite good at it," he says. Hank scoffs, but does not refute him. "I enjoy being close to you," he continues - _there is more to it than that_ \- "It puts me at ease, but also, more than that, it - I feel--" _More than that_ \- what can he say? How can it be quantified? He falters, and Hank -

"Yeah," he says, soft. Does not ask Connor to continue his thought; just repeats it again, _yeah_ , and rests his cheek against Connor's hair.

And that is no answer at all, a perfect match to Connor's own failed attempt at an explanation. Perhaps, also - perhaps there is a spark inside of Hank as well, one that mirrors his own. The possibility is a warm weight inside - _satisfying_ \- not unlike the heat of Hank beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> hahahaha Hank, my man, why are you playing a love song to the poor android sitting across from you??? (have some dignity)
> 
> Anyway, this really did not need to exist, but somehow I ended up writing it anyway. A part of me just really wanted to write more softness for these two. There was no plan to this before I started writing and that is probably why Hank ended up wooing Connor with his sweet, sweet guitar skills.
> 
> Thank you for giving this fic a chance and taking the time to read! I appreciate all of you♥!
> 
> (also I have a [dbh twitter](https://twitter.com/autumnandroid) where I mostly just cry at the great fanart out there, also I am on [tumblr](http://foreverautumnblog.tumblr.com/)!)
> 
> EDIT - the amazing @JoshuaCinensis drew an absolutely breathtaking art of Connor & Hank!!! I am blown away♥! Please check it out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/JoshuaCinensis/status/1048056828830109696) / [tumblr](https://solaris-interitus.tumblr.com/post/178748621095/i-made-the-mistake-the-wonderful-glorious)!


End file.
